The Age of Innocence, by Edith Wharton

XIII.

It was a crowded night at Wallack’s theatre.

The play was “The Shaughraun,” with Dion Boucicault in the title role and Harry Montague and Ada Dyas as the lovers.
The popularity of the admirable English company was at its height, and the Shaughraun always packed the house. In the
galleries the enthusiasm was unreserved; in the stalls and boxes, people smiled a little at the hackneyed sentiments
and clap-trap situations, and enjoyed the play as much as the galleries did.

There was one episode, in particular, that held the house from floor to ceiling. It was that in which Harry
Montague, after a sad, almost monosyllabic scene of parting with Miss Dyas, bade her good-bye, and turned to go. The
actress, who was standing near the mantelpiece and looking down into the fire, wore a gray cashmere dress without
fashionable loopings or trimmings, moulded to her tall figure and flowing in long lines about her feet. Around her neck
was a narrow black velvet ribbon with the ends falling down her back.

When her wooer turned from her she rested her arms against the mantel-shelf and bowed her face in her hands. On the
threshold he paused to look at her; then he stole back, lifted one of the ends of velvet ribbon, kissed it, and left
the room without her hearing him or changing her attitude. And on this silent parting the curtain fell.

It was always for the sake of that particular scene that Newland Archer went to see “The Shaughraun.” He thought the
adieux of Montague and Ada Dyas as fine as anything he had ever seen Croisette and Bressant do in Paris, or Madge
Robertson and Kendal in London; in its reticence, its dumb sorrow, it moved him more than the most famous histrionic
outpourings.

On the evening in question the little scene acquired an added poignancy by reminding him — he could not have said
why — of his leave-taking from Madame Olenska after their confidential talk a week or ten days earlier.

It would have been as difficult to discover any resemblance between the two situations as between the appearance of
the persons concerned. Newland Archer could not pretend to anything approaching the young English actor’s romantic good
looks, and Miss Dyas was a tall red-haired woman of monumental build whose pale and pleasantly ugly face was utterly
unlike Ellen Olenska’s vivid countenance. Nor were Archer and Madame Olenska two lovers parting in heart-broken
silence; they were client and lawyer separating after a talk which had given the lawyer the worst possible impression
of the client’s case. Wherein, then, lay the resemblance that made the young man’s heart beat with a kind of
retrospective excitement? It seemed to be in Madame Olenska’s mysterious faculty of suggesting tragic and moving
possibilities outside the daily run of experience. She had hardly ever said a word to him to produce this impression,
but it was a part of her, either a projection of her mysterious and outlandish background or of something inherently
dramatic, passionate and unusual in herself. Archer had always been inclined to think that chance and circumstance
played a small part in shaping people’s lots compared with their innate tendency to have things happen to them. This
tendency he had felt from the first in Madame Olenska. The quiet, almost passive young woman struck him as exactly the
kind of person to whom things were bound to happen, no matter how much she shrank from them and went out of her way to
avoid them. The exciting fact was her having lived in an atmosphere so thick with drama that her own tendency to
provoke it had apparently passed unperceived. It was precisely the odd absence of surprise in her that gave him the
sense of her having been plucked out of a very maelstrom: the things she took for granted gave the measure of those she
had rebelled against.

Archer had left her with the conviction that Count Olenski’s accusation was not unfounded. The mysterious person who
figured in his wife’s past as “the secretary” had probably not been unrewarded for his share in her escape. The
conditions from which she had fled were intolerable, past speaking of, past believing: she was young, she was
frightened, she was desperate — what more natural than that she should be grateful to her rescuer? The pity was that
her gratitude put her, in the law’s eyes and the world’s, on a par with her abominable husband. Archer had made her
understand this, as he was bound to do; he had also made her understand that simplehearted kindly New York, on whose
larger charity she had apparently counted, was precisely the place where she could least hope for indulgence.

To have to make this fact plain to her — and to witness her resigned acceptance of it — had been intolerably painful
to him. He felt himself drawn to her by obscure feelings of jealousy and pity, as if her dumbly-confessed error had put
her at his mercy, humbling yet endearing her. He was glad it was to him she had revealed her secret, rather than to the
cold scrutiny of Mr. Letterblair, or the embarrassed gaze of her family. He immediately took it upon himself to assure
them both that she had given up her idea of seeking a divorce, basing her decision on the fact that she had understood
the uselessness of the proceeding; and with infinite relief they had all turned their eyes from the “unpleasantness”
she had spared them.

“I was sure Newland would manage it,” Mrs. Welland had said proudly of her future son-in-law; and old Mrs. Mingott,
who had summoned him for a confidential interview, had congratulated him on his cleverness, and added impatiently:
“Silly goose! I told her myself what nonsense it was. Wanting to pass herself off as Ellen Mingott and an old maid,
when she has the luck to be a married woman and a Countess!”

These incidents had made the memory of his last talk with Madame Olenska so vivid to the young man that as the
curtain fell on the parting of the two actors his eyes filled with tears, and he stood up to leave the theatre.

In doing so, he turned to the side of the house behind him, and saw the lady of whom he was thinking seated in a box
with the Beauforts, Lawrence Lefferts and one or two other men. He had not spoken with her alone since their evening
together, and had tried to avoid being with her in company; but now their eyes met, and as Mrs. Beaufort recognised him
at the same time, and made her languid little gesture of invitation, it was impossible not to go into the box.

Beaufort and Lefferts made way for him, and after a few words with Mrs. Beaufort, who always preferred to look
beautiful and not have to talk, Archer seated himself behind Madame Olenska. There was no one else in the box but Mr.
Sillerton Jackson, who was telling Mrs. Beaufort in a confidential undertone about Mrs. Lemuel Struthers’s last Sunday
reception (where some people reported that there had been dancing). Under cover of this circumstantial narrative, to
which Mrs. Beaufort listened with her perfect smile, and her head at just the right angle to be seen in profile from
the stalls, Madame Olenska turned and spoke in a low voice.

“Do you think,” she asked, glancing toward the stage, “he will send her a bunch of yellow roses tomorrow
morning?”

Archer reddened, and his heart gave a leap of surprise. He had called only twice on Madame Olenska, and each time he
had sent her a box of yellow roses, and each time without a card. She had never before made any allusion to the
flowers, and he supposed she had never thought of him as the sender. Now her sudden recognition of the gift, and her
associating it with the tender leave-taking on the stage, filled him with an agitated pleasure.

“I was thinking of that too — I was going to leave the theatre in order to take the picture away with me,” he
said.

To his surprise her colour rose, reluctantly and duskily. She looked down at the mother-of-pearl opera-glass in her
smoothly gloved hands, and said, after a pause: “What do you do while May is away?”

“I stick to my work,” he answered, faintly annoyed by the question.

In obedience to a long-established habit, the Wellands had left the previous week for St. Augustine, where, out of
regard for the supposed susceptibility of Mr. Welland’s bronchial tubes, they always spent the latter part of the
winter. Mr. Welland was a mild and silent man, with no opinions but with many habits. With these habits none might
interfere; and one of them demanded that his wife and daughter should always go with him on his annual journey to the
south. To preserve an unbroken domesticity was essential to his peace of mind; he would not have known where his
hair-brushes were, or how to provide stamps for his letters, if Mrs. Welland had not been there to tell him.

As all the members of the family adored each other, and as Mr. Welland was the central object of their idolatry, it
never occurred to his wife and May to let him go to St. Augustine alone; and his sons, who were both in the law, and
could not leave New York during the winter, always joined him for Easter and travelled back with him.

It was impossible for Archer to discuss the necessity of May’s accompanying her father. The reputation of the
Mingotts’ family physician was largely based on the attack of pneumonia which Mr. Welland had never had; and his
insistence on St. Augustine was therefore inflexible. Originally, it had been intended that May’s engagement should not
be announced till her return from Florida, and the fact that it had been made known sooner could not be expected to
alter Mr. Welland’s plans. Archer would have liked to join the travellers and have a few weeks of sunshine and boating
with his betrothed; but he too was bound by custom and conventions. Little arduous as his professional duties were, he
would have been convicted of frivolity by the whole Mingott clan if he had suggested asking for a holiday in
mid-winter; and he accepted May’s departure with the resignation which he perceived would have to be one of the
principal constituents of married life.

He was conscious that Madame Olenska was looking at him under lowered lids. “I have done what you wished — what you
advised,” she said abruptly.

“Ah — I’m glad,” he returned, embarrassed by her broaching the subject at such a moment.

“I understand — that you were right,” she went on a little breathlessly; “but sometimes life is difficult
. . . perplexing . . . ”

“I know.”

“And I wanted to tell you that I DO feel you were right; and that I’m grateful to you,” she ended, lifting her
opera-glass quickly to her eyes as the door of the box opened and Beaufort’s resonant voice broke in on them.

Archer stood up, and left the box and the theatre.

Only the day before he had received a letter from May Welland in which, with characteristic candour, she had asked
him to “be kind to Ellen” in their absence. “She likes you and admires you so much — and you know, though she doesn’t
show it, she’s still very lonely and unhappy. I don’t think Granny understands her, or uncle Lovell Mingott either;
they really think she’s much worldlier and fonder of society than she is. And I can quite see that New York must seem
dull to her, though the family won’t admit it. I think she’s been used to lots of things we haven’t got; wonderful
music, and picture shows, and celebrities — artists and authors and all the clever people you admire. Granny can’t
understand her wanting anything but lots of dinners and clothes — but I can see that you’re almost the only person in
New York who can talk to her about what she really cares for.”

His wise May — how he had loved her for that letter! But he had not meant to act on it; he was too busy, to begin
with, and he did not care, as an engaged man, to play too conspicuously the part of Madame Olenska’s champion. He had
an idea that she knew how to take care of herself a good deal better than the ingenuous May imagined. She had Beaufort
at her feet, Mr. van der Luyden hovering above her like a protecting deity, and any number of candidates (Lawrence
Lefferts among them) waiting their opportunity in the middle distance. Yet he never saw her, or exchanged a word with
her, without feeling that, after all, May’s ingenuousness almost amounted to a gift of divination. Ellen Olenska was
lonely and she was unhappy.